


you were a heavenbound angel, wings, halo, and all

by loosecloudymist_OperaEagleAce



Series: KHR Poetry [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: 16th century Italy, Angst, EVEN NOW, F/M, Feels, Freeverse poetry, Hallelujah, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Poetry, Roman Catholicism was a thing guys, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tragedy, a Big Thing in Italy, covers childhood to death of Primo, did Giotto's wife ever get any screen time, formatted poetry, foundation of Vongola, just try it, primo!era, religion is seriously a huge part of people's lives, some Hallelujah lyrics, the character death is not surprising, the friendship between Vongola and Shimon, why does nobody address that in fics?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 10:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13902327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loosecloudymist_OperaEagleAce/pseuds/loosecloudymist_OperaEagleAce
Summary: -.-_-.-,you used to ^soar^ among the clouds,exalted with the angels constantly preaching love and tolerance and Christ’s charity all around you,and you danced to their song while you decided it was the best thing in the world,worth every sacrifice you had to offer[what do you think now, fallen/golden/angel?](you remember your gleaming-golden wings, don’t you,golden/boy-vigil/ante-sav/ior-lea/der-i/dolwith the sunlight glinting off your golden-spun hair and a kindfullofcharityandcare laugh to fell giants and cure black hearts)but now, you think,/maybe it wasn’t worth it/-.-listen, and I’ll describe in p.e.r.f.e.c.t detail everything that went awry.just sit there, and I’ll pretend I don’t see you crying, infallible hero that you are (neverwere)-.-_-.-,Vongola Primo was never perfect. He never claimed to be.





	you were a heavenbound angel, wings, halo, and all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OnceABlueMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceABlueMoon/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Hallelujah](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14136363) by [OnceABlueMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnceABlueMoon/pseuds/OnceABlueMoon). 



> ahahaha don't ask. Sorry I had to take you along for this feels trip. Written in about three/four hours with a well of inspiration that has never been seen before or since. I hope you all enjoy!

-.-.-.-

_Hallelujah, hallelujah_

-.-_-.-,

you used to ^soar^ among the clouds,

exalted with the angels constantly preaching love and tolerance and Christ’s charity all around you,

and you danced to their song while you decided it was the best thing in the world,

worth every sacrifice you had to offer

[what do you think now, fallen/golden/angel?]

(you remember your gleaming-golden wings, don’t you,

golden/boy-vigil/ante-sav/ior-lea/der-i/dol

with the sunlight glinting off your golden-spun hair and a kindfullofcharityandcare laugh to fell giants and cure black hearts)

but now, you think,

/maybe it wasn’t worth it/

-.-

listen, and I’ll describe in p.e.r.f.e.c.t detail everything that went awry.

just sit there, and I’ll pretend I don’t see you crying, infallible hero that you are (neverwere)

-.-

you were born Catholic,

like everybody in Italy

(it wasn’t a destiny that you could escape, no matter how much you denied it)

and you grew up on the Bible, gained i-den-ti-ty and nu-tri-ents from Catholicism and the priest

and you prayed every day, like a good little God-fearing, heavenbound-angel

(the one you were supposed to be, and, back then,

maybe you even fancied you _were_ )

but you grew older, and everyone’s wings gain grey feathers,

and their halos gather d.u’s.t,

and it was no different for you,

golden-boy, heavenbound-angel.

the streets of your small little village were not made to thrive on gospel principles and Christ’s pure charity,

however much it’s large enough to boast a decent church

(that everyone attends every Sunday, no matter what,

must pretend you can all be saved and possess perfect:white:whole souls

smear on lipstick and don your mask of innocence for mass,

because for all that your town boasts a church,

it doesn’t boast a confessional readily attended

instead, it gathers ‘d.u*s.t’ like halos,

that illusion deemed too much effort to maintain)

your town is full of petty thievery, fights at the docks, and viciously guarding what is yours

else the nobles(/overseers) will take it away.

-.-

it sickens you,

it sickens everyone,

and it’s not living, it’s barely surviving,

but what can you do?

everyone decides they can’t change it, and keeps their heads down.

they have plenty of incentive to do so

after all, every dissenter is killed brutally as an example.

the message is clear:

 **you cannot succeed in defying us** :: _we will squash you like bugs_

but you’ve always been a little >impulsive, and a little >hot-tempered (maybe a bit influenced by your best friend, there)

and maybe, in the end, a little bit too >reckless and >caring and >>possessive.

just enough to finally disregard that warning and rip yourself from the self-imposed restrictions that kept you, your family, and your friends safe

(but also suffocated you)

when Franco is threatened, when he dies, when one of  _y.o.u.r_o.w.n_ is taken from you

by careless, greedy nobles who only know how to be parasites,

you _s~nap~_

the world turns to fire, it’s engulfed in vivid-orange-burning flames

all you can think of is _justice idemandjustice i_will_not_stand_by!_

_{if no one will protect them, I will}_

(and it’s glorious, darling, the best thing you’ve ever felt

your blood *sings* and you know you’ve found your calling

and you feel a~live~, not trapped and caged in by expectations and oppression

when you risk your life and your safety and all you hold dear for the worshipped Christ’s charity that no one seems to truly value except you)

-.-

the Vongola, you’re called,

that vigilante gang that you started.

you are comprised of yourself, and your best friends, one with (pink) hair and a brilliant red face tattoo, and the other with his equally brilliant red eyes (stunning, you think, beautiful, fascinating, and isn’t it weird you find yourself lost in his eyes for hours?)

and a few other of y.o.u.r.s that you’ve picked up along the way and insisted on joining your suicidal venture

but more and more, when you keep escaping punishment,

when you see the hope and relief and heartbreaking, _unconditional_ t^r^u^s^t on their faces,

when you think _I made him happy, I saved that little girl, they will keep hoping for a brighter day_

it seems less **suicidal** and more **_natural_ ** **,** **_obvious_ **

it seems worth every sacrifice you have to throw on the alter

(this was back when you were full of passion,,power and invincibility,,naivete, wasn’t it?

a lot of anger and adrenaline to throw around and not many clear thoughts or plans)

[what do you think now?]

-.-

(among nightmares

hide snapshots of your one secret desire. a secret you’ve never acknowledged in your mind, never mind breathed aloud

it started when you were young.

at first, you thought it was just curiosity.

then, you thought that perhaps you just really liked the way his red-compass eyes sparkled and glittered with light.

then, you thought that perhaps you were just noticing what a fine young man Cozart was growing into because he was just now growing,

but then, you catch yourself sneaking glances. you find yourself making lame jokes that he nevertheless laughs at, and you find yourself longing to feel his arm slung over your shoulder and bask in his bright, louder-than-life laughter.

and you deny it.

you read and study the Bible harder and longer than ever before, and you pray more fervently.

this stirring in your chest and heat low in your stomach and blush on your face,

everything you’ve ever been taught says it’s wrong.

you deny it, until you no longer can, and then you accept it, as you have your role in this world, but crush it anyway.

you keep it close and never let it be known, and it ends up as just another sin to mask.)

-.-

but you can only be pushed so far up on a pedestal before you come tumbling down,

you can only climb your Tower of Babel so far.

your wings have greyed too fast, they’re fragile and weak

you haven’t devoted the necessary attention to them to keep you *flying* for soso long

(and your halo isn’t shiny gold now, it’s covered in polished, lookalike bronze)

but you didn’t notice before now, because everyone kept coming up to you and handing you peacock feathers to attach to your wings,

and you grew too proud of them, too assured by their praises and what you hear about Christ’s charity in mass every week,

to remember that peacocks can’t fly.

they’re pretty, but they’re weak.

and you might have danced with the angels once upon a time, darling,

and devoted your life to their song of lovecharitykindness,

but you’re not one of them.

you’re m:o/r:t/a:l.

you’re a p:e:a:c:o:c:k.

you’ve just mur~dered for the cause you pledged your life to,

and the blood on your hands feels so sticky. it won’t go away.

your wings are r.e.d now [what do you think now]

but you look into their hopeful, worshipping eyes,

and you can’t stop this.

this train w-r-e-c-k was set in motion years ago.

you’re not infallible, but they don’t know that.

[it would break their hearts to see it, and you know it.]

and the red s,t,a,i,n,s on your wings keep spreading,

spreading,

until crimson engulfs them wholly, and it spills over into steady d,r,i,p,s

and like an epidemic,

it spreads to those angels around you that obey your every word without question

it spreads every time your wings brush theirs

you want to call out to them _stopidon’tmeanitplease_ **_don’tpoisonyourselfforme_ **

but they meet your eyes with sure smiles and disintegrate others with steadier precision

and you can tell at this point your will has spread too far to be halted

(an epidemic, except only targeting _yours_)

you bow your head and accept it and keep on straining, pushing, forcing yourself to live up to their expectations of savior-leader-golden-angel

(you can’t tell any of them that you never were an angel to begin with)

and you begin to crack, and you begin to break, and your wilted grey feathers keep molting faster than you can paste new peacock ones on,

but they still **_need you._**

and even if you’re not ^heaven^bound anymore,

you can ensure the ones you’re saving are.

_y.o.u.r.s_ can tell you’re beginning to falter under the weight of the world,

and they support you any way they can,

but it just becomes too much.

maybe you’ve already fallen off the Tower of Babel once, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen a second time.

and you… you can’t.

you can’t anymore.

you dissolve the fighting force you have.

-.-

Cozart keeps throwing you these increasingly worried, tender looks,

and you can’t stand it.

you know he’s trying to get you alone so he can talk with you, but you couldn’t stand it.

the temptation to smash him into a wall and kiss him is already overpowering enough with all of _y.o.u.r.s_ in the room with you, you couldn’t resist it alone.

but he catches you anyway, and he asks you if you’re alright,

in those pure, lovely tones of his that you can’t describe.

you look into his eyes and take a deep breath and say

{ _i’m sorry_ }

before kissing him slowly, sensually, and then bolting out of the room.

Cozart is not going to want to look at you again, you know it, but…

…you really tried to not be caught alone.

[but how hard?]

and… it was totally worth it, you think, brushing your lips where his touched.

it was everything you thought it would be, warm and sweet and stolen.

-.-

he avoids you, just like you knew he would, and as much as you feel crushing disappointment and hurt,

you aren’t surprised.

(just glad he hasn’t told anyone else.)

but you /are/ when he finds you after a meeting

(another shouting match about how Vongola doesn’t have the force to protect their territory any more,

and you are tired and threadbare to the bone)

and stares at you before bringing your lips together in an answer you never thought you’d get

-.-

it’s _wonderful_.

it’s absolutely amazing, and dazzling, and…

(wrong.)

his kisses are the best, cinnamon and apples and heady earth.

it’s astounding and still *sparkly *new that you can draw the man that makes your heart go crazy into a deserted corner and kiss him senseless.

you feel like you’ve sprouted new, secret °wings° that you can’t show anyone, but help you soar regardless,

and you dance to and swear by the melody of love.

nothing can ruin your mood, not even Daemon slowly drawing away from you and the gradual splintering of the unquestionable, unshakable alliance _y.o.u.r.s_ had Before.

-.-

except, you know, a massacre.

Elena is included in those dead, and as soon as you get a look at your Daemon’s face,

you know he will never forgive you.

you /promised/ that no one would get hurt with the disbanding of the fighting force, that this would be the best solution.

and this, to him, is a very clearly broken-|-promise.

your wings are **molted** , and your halo is _h_ **e** **_a_ ** v _y_ and _b_ **r** _o_ **k** _e_ **n** ,

and now they can see you are not an angel.

you tried to show them before, and they realized sortof in the {back of their minds}

but it never “clicked”

you spend the night weeping with Cozart,

sharing kisses and finding mutual, much-needed comfort.

that’s the last time you see him.

soon after, Daemon recommends an heir.

you agree with his choice, though the flint in your Mist’s eyes doesn’t give you a good feeling.

you show him a few of the ropes, and leave for Japan, Asari, Knuckle, and Alaude behind you,

the rest left to take care of your life’s work,

the Vongola.

-.-

but maybe, just maybe

(and you think this to yourself every day, glancing around at the utopia that you have built yourself,

and \stabbing \yourself \inside, whittling away at your >unpuncturable< happiness a little more,

even while grasping [desperately] at the people you’ve decided to live on with instead)

(including your wife, and oh, that is a story best left for another day)

if you’d stayed out of the spotlight,

if you hadn’t been so noble,

(fullofuselessidealsthatwillneverbecomemore, unwilling-to-let-go-of-everything-you-have-worked-for-so-far, even~at~the~ultimate~cost~of~your~ **real** ~utopia)

you maybe could have slipped notice enough to have a **real** relationship

with the one you love,

could never stop loving,

though you neverever dare to voice that forbidden emotion

(for another *man*)

it’s just not done,

GIOTTO

{may 22, 1609}

-.-

 _And love is not a victory march_ _  
_ _It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah_  
Hallelujah

-.-

there are a lot of things you regret

and chief among them are Cozart and corrupting _y.o.u.r.s_.

you wish you could have had a happier ending,

but it was never to be.

the world isn’t kind and forgiving like that,

because no matter how many people claim they are Catholic,

only a few of their ×hearts× are actually _Catholic_.

you try,

and fail,

not to spend much time on the what-ifs.

but darling, you’re m:o/r:t/a:l.

you’re a p;e:a:c:o:c;k.

somehow, you were made to *fly*,

but not **forever**. and your time has come now.

your cracked, dulled imitation-gold-bronze halo rests pretty on your weary, tired head,

and your r,e,d-stained wings, truly grey,

can’t bear you up anymore.

you can’t fly to heaven.

and when you can’t fly, the only choice is to fall.

that’s life. you accepted this outcome the moment you accepted murdering to keep _y.o.u.r.s_ safe.

you face it with your head held high and your breath held still,

and you f/all, f/all, f//all,

even longer than the fall from your Tower of Babel.

[what do you think now, of the choices you have made?]

-.-

(even as you plunge down,

the townspeople who revered you so raise their eyes and sing praises to you,

your name and _savior_ in the same breath.

*hallelujah,*

they sing,

*you’ve done so many things,

given us so much peace,

now it’s your turn.

rest in peace, Giotto di Vongola*)

-.-

I can’t say that the outcome wouldn’t be different if you hadn’t -fought -so -hard that you sacrificed everything and innocence,

or that it wouldn’t be the same if you’d chosen to openly love your red-eyed compass,

but perhaps you would have been happier.

-.-

 _I did my best, it wasn't much_ _  
_ _I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch_ _  
_ _I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you_ _  
_ _And even though_ _  
_ _It all went wrong_ _  
_ _I'll stand before the Lord of Song_  
_With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah_

-.-.-.-


End file.
